


Boys and Their Toys

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Fire and Gunpowder [5]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M, Fast-Paced Living (and Loving), Whirlwind Relationship/Romance, character origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4871908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anastazia surprises Kyle with a couple special gifts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys and Their Toys

**Author's Note:**

> Because every hitman has to have his first gun at some point. :)

As a general rule, Kyle comes with her everywhere. And by “everywhere”, she means _everywhere_ : the mall, little shops around town, the hair and nail salon (bless his heart), and the club. At her side, in her shadow, at her beck and call, with no exceptions and without fail. He does exactly as she’s asked from the beginning, and as of late, it’s becoming more apparent just how much he’s enjoying himself. And this time, it’s without the ridiculous tough-guy act. He enjoys himself, he enjoys their time together, and he’s not shy about it. And he’s made a habit of kissing her goodnight on a regular basis. It means she doesn’t quite make it to bed for another thirty minutes, but sleep is _so_ overrated. 

In repayment for his loyalty and dutiful behavior—and the fact that he is a really, really good kisser—Anastazia sees it only appropriate to return the favor. Good deeds deserve just rewards, and all that. So, one particularly seasonable summer day, she waltzes into the lounge where the boys are playing the afternoon card game. Well, Kyle isn’t as much participating as he is silently observing—and really, she isn’t sure why; he has an excellent poker face and she knows for a fact he could easily beat out half of them within the first three rounds—but when she walks in the room, his eyes dart up and she knows, with great satisfaction, she now possesses his undivided attention. With a coy smile, she beckons him with a hand gesture and tells him they’re going out. He follows without question, ignoring the mutterings of the other men in the room, until they get out to the car and, with casual grace, she turns and hands him the keys. The look on his face is absolutely precious.

“You’re serious?”

“Of course I am.” She smiles with a playful wink while rounding the back of the car and slipping into the passenger side. “After all, there’s no way you can be any worse a driver, right? And, for all the good work you do and what you put up with, I think you’ve earned a little time behind the wheel.”

It doesn’t take any further convincing on her part, and her smile widens as she takes in how good he looks in her car, in the driver’s seat. The black leather interior and sleek exterior paint work quite nicely with his dark-wash jeans and button-up shirt. The shirt is a little more formal, by her preferred standards, but the boys had a family meeting this morning, and Kyle still makes a point to dress up, at least a little, for her father and the others. And, if she were to be perfectly honest with herself, she does like the sight of him in the formal attire. Not the suit jackets and ties, but there’s something about the way he looks with the top two buttons popped and the expensive cotton fitted nicely to his frame. It’s a rather…delicious image.

She tells him to head downtown, and that she’ll let him know when and where he needs to turn. He still looks curious, but says nothing and asks no questions. It’s become incredibly endearing, actually, just how much he trusts her direction and rarely questions her judgment anymore. It’s so very sweet.

And, after last week, it’s actually a little touching. She’d been in rare form, pulling daredevil stunts four days in a row without incident. Unfortunately, the fifth day didn’t go so well. She made a slight error in calculation, which resulted a one-way ticket to the repair shop for her motorcycle, a few scrapes and bruises on both of them, and three consecutive hours of lecturing from her father on reckless behavior and carelessness and so on. 

She wouldn’t have received the lecture, had she been able to just take the bike to the shop and return to the house, because Daddy doesn’t care much about her toys and couldn’t pick them out of a lineup. He hadn’t been in the area to see the little mishap, but the local television station happened to be, and caught the entire thing on camera. Live, rolling, broadcasting across the city and into her father’s study, television camera.

Kyle had caught the lesser brunt of Daddy’s fuming rage, because he had, after all, been there at her side and pulled her to safety and gotten her away before the media vultures could swoop in. That, actually, was where the television broadcast had failed and she was quite grateful for it. All the cameras had been able to capture was the motorcycle skidding across the pavement, cars crashing and colliding, and then five minutes later, two individuals rising from the wreckage relatively unharmed before disappearing into the crowd. The cameras had _not_ gotten any footage five minutes earlier, of Kyle thinking faster than herself (for once), locking his arms around her waist and tossing them both off the bike before the actual collision happened, and coming to rest protectively over her fifteen feet away.

“And that,” he’d said, once he managed to catch his breath and was fixing her with a look, “is why we keep our eyes on the road. At all times.”

The proximity of his body to hers had proved more distracting than she’d bargained for. By the time she’d regained her wits, all she managed to return was a quiet, but coy, “If you want to take me in your arms, all you have to do is ask.”

Not the most appropriate comment for the occasion, but the sky had still been spinning and her blood pumping hard and fast, and he hadn’t actually removed himself from on top of her. Not for five minutes. Five very long minutes, during which time she had suspected he wanted to kiss her, or even something more, but ultimately hadn’t. It had taken another ten for her blood to stop rushing, her senses to return, and for her to wrestle and wrangle her lesser mind under control before earning a citation for public indecency.

It’s not her fault. It really isn’t. She’s already accepted the fact that she finds him attractive, very much at that, and only more so every time they touch, no matter how brief or incidental. And when he kisses her, or she kisses him…well then, all bets are off and it’s _definitely_ not her fault. To have him lying on top of her, essentially pinning her to the ground, was a test from God and she only barely passed.

But still, control. Always control. She’s not as loose as everyone thinks she is.

“Turn here,” she says, gesturing up ahead; he does, and the street brings them into an empty lot facing a small, but respectable-looking shop. There are no distinctive markings on this side of the building, but the windows are lit and the back door is open, as per the arrangement she has with the owner. She smiles to herself, exits the vehicle, and nods for him to do the same.

“Where are we?”

“Patience, Kyle,” she winks at him, “the anticipation is half the fun.”

He lifts an eyebrow, but says nothing else while they slip in through the door; a little bell rings overheard, and she stands in place, waiting and watching the look on his face change from confusion, to intrigue, to the kind of sheer delight that comes over a child’s face when Christmas comes three months early.

Most of the shop is polished wood, floors and walls alike—she’s often made a comment to the owner about how easy it will be for this place to go up in flames, never to any avail—but each wall is lined with protective glass cabinets, of different shapes and sizes, and each one proudly displays a ridiculous collection of knives and guns. Every kind known to the market, plus some that aren’t, and each one personally maintained and kept meticulous. She’s come in during “cleaning hours” and personally observed the care and dedication the good doctor gives to these things.

There’s a shuffling from the back, a door opens and closes, and then a short, heavy-set man dressed in a three-piece suit with spectacles on his round nose appears. He catches sight of her, and the corners of his thick mustache lift in a greeting smile.

“My dear girl,” he declares, the British accent thick on his tongue; he reaches out and gathers her into his arms, “so good to see you once more. It has been terribly long since your last visit—I’d nearly thought you’d forgotten me.” 

“Perish the thought.” She smiles, with a playful hint of drama. “I count the hours we are apart, my friend.”

He pats her face affectionately, makes a cheerful comment about how lovely she looks today, and then looks over her shoulder to Kyle. “Well, well. This strapping young fellow must be your fresh blood, yes?”

Kyle’s eyebrows lift at the christening title, but she ignores it, slips her arms around his waist and nudges him forward with her head on his shoulder. “Spare no expense, Doctor. He deserves only the best, and I know you don’t deliver anything less.”

Dark eyes narrow thoughtfully from behind the glasses, taking in the younger man in with care and precision. He slowly circles Kyle for a minute or two, making quiet observations under his breath. Clearly, great minds think alike and consequently share similar insight, because she hears the doctor take note of the muscle tone visible beneath the shirt, and how large Kyle’s hands are, and the intensity of his gaze. 

“Serpent’s eyes.” He declares, quietly, and she has to tuck back a little smile because it is so very true and so incredibly accurate. “Yes. Yes, I do believe I have just the thing. Wait here.”

When the elder disappears behind the far counter, rummaging a bit out of sight, Kyle slowly turns his head to look at her. “Doctor?”

She rests her chin on his shoulder with an innocent shrug. “A very devoted doctor, a counselor and physician to the poor and unfortunate who live on these streets. He is well-respected and renowned for his kind heart and his willingness to take all patients without charge.”

“And this little shop…?”

Her smile returns, tucked into one corner. “Side business.” She shrugs again and winks at him. “A gentleman has to make a living somehow.”

The doctor reappears, dusting himself off briefly before motioning for them to approach; he has two boxes set out on the countertop, but waits until they’re closer before he opens the first one. Inside is a knife, resting atop black velvet, its handle adorned with simple embellishments and a metal clip for attaching at the belt, and a six-inch blade with a smooth, slick edge that ends in an upward curve.

“I thought, at first,” he explains, “to provide a serrated blade. But I rather think you are a man who prefers things quick and clean. _To the point_ , if you forgive the pun.”

He reaches over to the other box, this one larger, nudges it to the forefront, and opens the lid. “And this,” he continues, with an affectionate little smile, “was a little souvenir from my time down south. An acquaintance of mine, who regrettably crawled into a whiskey bottle after a lifetime of gambling left him quite without a penny in his pocket. He had no family, and the good fellows of the local law enforcement agency were gracious enough to allow a grieving friend first pick of all his property. Including the gun he used to, shall we say, end his sorrows.”

With a promising nod, he adds, winking at them both. “I can promise it’s been cleaned since. Several times.”

If Kyle could look any happier right now, she doubts it. He’s barely breathing as he reaches into the box and carefully takes the gun in hand: a nickel-plated revolver with an ivory handle, elegantly embellished, and a perfect fit for his large hands and long fingers. The barrel is longer than most, but not ridiculously so, like some she’s seen. It is, indeed, a fine piece of weaponry. And Kyle looks it’s his birthday.

“Now, per your earlier request, my dear,” the doctor says to her, “all the legal registration is taken care of. I will require a few signatures, but nothing more. If there is one thing you never want, my boy,” he adds, lifting his eyebrows at Kyle, “it’s to give the authorities permission to charge you left and right with petty matters. Illegal weapon possession, for instance.”

“Yes, sir.” He nods, sounding halfway breathless as he hoists the gun up to eye level, staring down the barrel towards an invisible target. “Most people prefer semi-automatic. More bullets and all that.” He returns it back to the box, lifting a questioning gaze at the older man. “I don’t strike you as that kind of man?”

The doctor looks between the two of them for a moment, then his mouth twitches up into a thin smile. “You, my boy,” he murmurs, “strike me as the kind of man who won’t miss.”

***

“I suppose I’ll have to buy you a car now, won’t I?” she smirks over her vanilla malt. “Just to complete the package.”

Kyle shakes his head. “I like your car.” He says, sipping his water thoughtfully. “Besides, I think you spent enough on me today. I thought that was the man’s job in a relationship.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Is that we’re in, Kyle?” she asks, catching a bit of loose liquid from her lips; she doesn’t miss the way he stares, a little too intently at the motion, but says nothing. “A relationship?”

“Would you prefer I refer to myself as your nightly boy-toy?” he smirks a little. “Seeing how many times I’ve slept on your couch…”

“You make it sound so scandalous.” She rolls her eyes. “You haven’t even seen my underwear drawer yet.”

“ _Yet_.” He finishes off the water, sets the glass aside, and folds both arms on the tabletop with a broad smirk. “Implying the future possibility that I may.”

“ _Possibility_ being the operative word.” Her head lifts with a prim little scoff. “You’re being rather presumptuous, Mr. Nimbus.”

“You’ll have to forgive me.” The smirk only grows. “I must have gotten a mixed message when my anniversary present from you was a kiss. Four of them, in fact. In your bedroom. On your bed, while you were in your nightclothes. And of course, your insistence on me escorting you to your bedroom, every night, because there just might be a threat lurking around the corner.”

“Anything is possible.”

“Indeed.” He nods slowly, still smirking; it should be illegal to look that good while smirking. “Perhaps I should start checking under your bed and inside your closet, just to be safe. I’d hate to fall down on my job duties.”

Her next sip is slower, longer, and this time she makes a point of tracing the tip of her tongue along the lips, just to make sure she didn’t leave any drops, and just to watch his eyes follow the movement with a tight flex of the throat. “If I didn’t know any better,” she says, slowly, “I’d think you were contemplating permanent residence in my bedroom. Should I designate a side of the bed for you to sleep on?”

“Implying I’d let you sleep.”

Her eyebrows shoot up and her eyelids drop in a look of utter scandal. “Mr. Nimbus,” she says with the appropriately-dramatic huff, “ _what_ kind of girl do you think I am?”

He barely blinks at her display; it’s only been three months and already he knows her too well. At least, well enough to not balk and stumble over apologies and blush like a school boy. “The kind of girl who’s up for anything, and always gets what she wants.”

She tosses away the act and leans forward, drawing her lips inward and releasing them. “And what about you?” she murmurs, dragging her eyes down his front, slow enough to make a point. “Are you up for anything, Mr. Nimbus? And do you always get what you want?”

He finishes his water and pushes the glass aside. That deliciously intense look is back, with full fire, and while she’s far too proud to let a little blush appear, she can certainly feel the heat creeping across her skin. “Not yet.” He finally declares. “Not yet…but as they say, there’s always tomorrow.”

She lets the conversation drop there, because if they continue it, they will both be cited for public indecency when she jumps him over the table. Why does he have to push her buttons, in all the right ways? And how has he figured out her buttons so quickly? It’s very, very unfair…but _damn_ , it’s exciting.

After they’ve made their exit out the door and back to the car, he asks if they can take another road trip, back across town. She just shrugs, smiles coyly, and tells him he has the keys and he can take her wherever he’d like. There’s a flash in his eyes that fades quickly, too quickly, and she’d really like to know what thought produced that little gleam, because she rather liked the look of it. And she would really like to know just what images flashed across his mind before he decided he needed to be a gentleman.

He drives them back to the little spot she’s started calling their “love nest”—the cliff’s edge on the other side of town, the place not even Daddy knows about and she never intends for him to know about—and after a few minutes of idle conversation, they both end up with the seats laid fully back and staring up at the sky. He has the gun out again and is running thoughtful eyes over every detail of its shape, occasionally lifting it to the clouds, seeking out targets only he can see, and then returning it to his lap. He’s like a five-year-old with a brand new fire truck.

At some point, he asks if she too has a “toy” from the good doctor. She smiles and slips a hand into her boot. After fiddling around for a minute with the ankle strap, she produces a knife, three-inch blade and candy-apple red handle. Like his, the blade is smooth, and it’s sharp. The sunlight gleams for a moment off the steel, reflection dancing across his cheek as he shifts to look at it properly.

“And where,” he says, looking at her, “do you keep this when you’re at the club?”

She blinks innocently, then shrugs again. “Maybe one day you’ll find out.”


End file.
